She saw the distance narrowing just the smallest bit between her and Courtrey. Just the smallest trifle, indeed, but _narrowing_. "He ain't a-puttin' Bolt down to his best," she told herself tensely, "I know what he can do." And she remembered that ride from the mouth of Black Coulee to the pine-guarded glade--and Kenset. At that thought she pressed her lips tighter. No thought of Kenset must come to her now--to weaken her with memory of those pressing, vital hands of his above his pounding heart. No--she was herself again--Tharon Last, Jim Last's girl, the gun woman of Lost Valley--and yonder went her father's killer. She leaned down and called again in El Rey's ear. No slightest spurt of speed rewarded her--nothing but the rising note. Then she saw that the distance was widening--just a tiny bit. Truly it was widening. Courtrey, looking back, had caught the sun on her golden hair, on her face as white as milk. He saw that her hands were at her hips--loosely set back at her hips--and what thought he might have had of mercy at her hands--what wild vision he might have seen of speech with her--of parley--of persuasion--was dead. He leaned down and struck the Ironwood with his open hand. Bolt, the beautiful, leaped in answer. A little more--slowly--the distance between pursuer and pursued widened. Then--Tharon blinked the mist from her eyes to make sure--the gain was lost. Slowly, steadily, El Rey closed up the extra width. Then for a time there was no change. The open plain resounded to the roar of hoofs, the wind sang by like taut strings struck. The earth was still that racing green blur beneath. And still the electric note of rising speed hummed softly higher. If Jim Last rode his silver stallion to the goal of vengeance he must surely have been satisfied. The great shoulders worked like pistons, the whole massive body was level as the flowing floor beneath, the steel-thewed limbs reached and doubled--reached and doubled--with wonderful power and precision. And then at last Tharon knew--knew that El Rey was gaining, slowly, steadily, surely. The splendid bay horse was running magnificently, but El Rey ran like a super-horse. His silver head was straight as a level, his ears laid back, his nostrils wide and flaring, red as blood, his big eyes glowed with the wildness of savage flight. The great king was mad with speed! Jim Last's girl was mad also--mad with the lust of conquest, of revenge. She rose a little from the stallion's whipping mane, and her blue eyes burned on the man ahead. "I said I'd get you, Buck Courtrey!" she muttered, "that some day I'd run th' Ironwoods off their feet--th' heart out of their master! "Run, damn you--for it's your last ride!" Then she dropped forward again and watched the distance closing down. Nearer--nearer--nearer! The note rose another notch. Never in his life had El Rey run as he ran now. Always he had had reserves. He had them now. The bottom of his power was not reached.